Of the anointing and other matters
by Itarille1
Summary: Short retelling of some events happened or might have happened during the Holy Week, as remembered by some characters.
1. Mary of Bethany

She received his visit with less joy than she normally had. Surely she rejoiced that he came – he was a dear friend and master to her and her family. But she could not help worrying about him. "Is it wise to go to the city at this time," she thought, "when our elders think so ill of him?"

But she knew that he had his own way, which often she could not perceive. He was a dear friend, so close to them, yet she always knew that he was different. She called him Master, for his great wisdom was for all to see, but she knew that he was more than that. The Christ, people had begun to whisper about him, and she heartily believed that.

She knew that going against the will of the elders could mean an arrest. He knew that too. He had spoken plainly that he would be arrested and put to death once he goes to the city. When she first heard it, she was shaken. He spoke about death calmly and resolutely, as if it was something that should be accomplished instead of avoided.

This afternoon, when he arrived at her house, she knew that he had not changed his mind. He looked calm as ever, but there was anguish in his eyes. It was hardly visible, but she, who held him so dear, could not have missed it. He was marching resolutely to his battle. She was afraid that this might be the last time he visited her.

She said nothing of this to him. She greeted him and his disciples warmly, then she assumed her usual place: she sat close to his feet. He did not speak much, but their eyes met few times and she understood. He had bid her farewell, he understood her grief, but she must know that all was well, he seemed to say. He had to take this path, and good would come of this. Good? How could good come of his death, a violent death at that? Mary did not understand, but she clung to this reassurance conveyed by his silence.

When he and his companions went to another room to rest, she went to the kitchen to help her sister preparing dinner. When it was almost dinner time, she went to her room to change her clothes. It was then that she saw the alabaster jar, kept very carefully in a chest. It was very precious to her, not only because it contained pure nard, but also because it was her mother's last gift to her. She had wanted to give it to him for quite some time, simply because it was her most valuable possession, but she could not see how it would be of any use to him. Now she thought sadly that perhaps she would soon use it for his burial. Then another thought came to her. Why should she use it for burial? Why should not she use it now, while he is still with her? And so she took the jar with her when she came for dinner.

The meal was now over. They all lingered at the table, speaking of the coming festival and their journey to Jerusalem. She did not participate much in the conversation; she found it distressing to be reminded about his impending departure. She was also busy thinking of how she could present the ointment to him. Should she wait until everyone but he retires? How should she explain the gift to him?

"You are very quiet today, Mary," said Lazarus, breaking her thoughts. "Are you well?"

"I am well, brother," she said softly, "there is something I need to do and I am thinking deeply of it, that is all."

Then she stood up, and turned to face the Master, who sat next to her. She could feel that everyone was staring at her, but she cared not. She took the jar and poured the ointment on his head. The oil flowed through his hair and a delightful fragrance filled the room. She looked at him, remembered all his kindness to her and his foretelling of his death, and she wept. Still weeping, she knelt and kissed his feet many times. Her tears fell on his feet, and she wiped them away with her hair, for she considered no towel worthy of the task. Afterwards she poured the rest of the ointment on his feet. For a moment she did not move, weeping silently and staring at his feet.

It was Judas, one of his disciples, who broke the silence. He exclaimed, "What an extravagance! Why wasn't this ointment sold for three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor?"

Mary was startled. She remembered how the Master always cared for the poor. Would he not rather have her helping the poor than have her pouring ointment on him?

Even as she thought of that, the Master stroked her head gently. He held out his hand to her and helped her to rise. After she returned to her seat, he addressed them. "Why are you upsetting her?" he said. "What she has done for me is one of the good works indeed! You have the poor with you always, but you will not always have me. When she poured this ointment on my body, she did it to prepare me for burial."

She often wondered at how well he read the heart of others. Now she wondered anew, and was glad that he understood. He understood, that was enough for her, nothing else mattered.


	2. An angel

An angel stood unmoved, listening to every word uttered by the Man. He was not the only one doing so, and Heaven became perfectly still as the entire host had their attention on a garden on earth and a lonely Man who was praying there.

The angel could hear the Man's every word and see his every move and expression. He could almost feel the Man's agony. He did not fully understand God's plan, who could? He was one of the angels who let their singing be heard on earth on the night of the Man's birth. Even then he could not fathom why God had to take on flesh and blood, though of course it was not his part to question his Master's action. Now as he saw the Man trembled and prayed alone in the garden – while his disciples are asleep! – he realized how little he understood his Master's love for the world He created.

He wondered when the host was going to come down and intervene. He knew there were even then a group of people coming to arrest the Man. Surely they were not going to let that happen? He looked at Michael, but the Captain of the Army did not show any sign of giving any command.

He turned as he felt another's presence at his side. He bowed as he saw that it was Gabriel.

"Brother," the Archangel said, "go to the garden to console the Man."

For a moment the angel simply stared in bewilderment. "Am I not supposed to go with the host?"

The Archangel shook his head. "The host will go later, though not for the purpose you have in your mind. But to you alone this honour is bestowed: go and console the Man, for he is going to his death."

"To his death!" the angel let out a cry. At that cry many angels came near them and listened to their discourse. "How can that be? And we, the invincible army of God, will do nothing but see it happens?"

"We will see it happens, and that is far from doing nothing," the Archangel replied. "For what we are going to see is something we have never seen, heard, or conceived."

The angel was silent. "You have granted me a great honour," he said. Then he bowed and left.

At once he was in the garden, a stone throw away from the Man who was still kneeling. His face showed his deep anguish. He looked up as the angel walked to him. The Man said nothing, but there were so many emotions visible in his face. Surprise, relief, joy, sadness, anxiety. To the angel's surprise, as he looked at the Man's face, he felt a great comfort. He was surprised. He knew who the Man was, of course. He knew what was within the flesh. But still, he did not expect that the Light would shine so brightly through the veil. Somehow this overwhelmed him: this Man who knelt before him with such anguish in his eyes was indeed his Master.

The angel bowed deeply and knelt beside the Man. "My lord ... " he whispered, almost like uttering a question.

The Man still said nothing. He seemed content with the angel's presence, with the fact that now he was no longer alone.

The angel suddenly realized the absurdity of the situation. _I, the least of His servant, to comfort Him! _And suddenly he was overwhelmed by awe at the unfathomableness of God. _I do not understand, of course I do not. Why should I, how could I, ever fully understand?_

"Great is your wisdom and love, o God," he spoke again. "What can I do to serve you in this time of distress?"

For the first time he heard the Man's voice. "Great indeed is the wisdom and the love of God," the Man said. "Your presence has comforted me. Would you stay while I pray?"

"I certainly would, Lord," answered the angel.

The Man closed his eyes again. As he prayed, beads of sweat appeared on his brow. Though it was dark, the angel could see them clearly. They were no ordinary sweat, for they appeared red as human blood. He once heard that in great distress, human body may develop such reactions.

He had not fully understood why God had to take on flesh, and he understood even less why the Incarnate God had to undergo such distress. But now he understood that he did not have to understand. Gently he wiped the sweat with his hands and kissed the blessed beads. Then with great reverence and love he stooped and kissed the Man's hands.


	3. Hector

He covered his eyes with his hand. _Light_, he thought with bewilderment, _how can there be light in this place?_ It had been long since he last saw any light, for he had long dwelt in the land of shadows.

He opened his eyes again as he heard footsteps. To his even greater bewilderment, he saw a man – if man that radiant being could be called – standing before him. _This man is not a mere shadow, _he thought, _but how can that be, in this land of the dead?_ _And the light_, he wondered, _why,_ _not even Phoebus Apollo ever appeared to me with such terrible radiance._

"Hector."

He startled. He remembered his name, but he had not heard anyone spoke it for long, not even he himself. For what needs have the dead of speech?

He did not know what to answer. "Who are you?" he finally said.

"Follow me," the man said, "and you will see."

"Follow you?" Hector asked, "whither can we go?"

The man looked straight at him. "Home," he said gently but firmly.

Hector felt a pang in his heart. "My home was burnt to ashes long ago."

"Troy was burnt. But I am taking you to your real home, which can never be destroyed. And know that one day, even Troy will no longer be ashes. For through me all things shall be made new." The man held out his hand. "Come."

Hector was not sure he understood these words, but another thing drew his attention. He saw something like a terrible wound in the proffered hand. There was an ugly hole in the man's wrist, as if a sharp-edged thing had been driven through the flesh and somehow the spirit retained the appearance.

The man seemed to notice that Hector was staring at his hand, for he spoke softly, "Yes, I too have wounds, son of Troy."

Hector raised his head to face the man. "Did you die defending your city too?" he asked. Hector was killed, oh, dreadfully killed, as he tried in vain to defend his city from the Achaeans.

The man seemed amused by this question. "You died to defend your city. I died to save my world. My death was not in vain. Not even yours was," he said solemnly. "Now we shall go to the land of the living. Come."

Suddenly there was in Hector's heart a great desire to follow this strange man (or was he a god?) who claimed to know a way out of the depth of Hades.

"I will follow you," he said, and took the proffered hand. It was warm.


End file.
